Improvisations 

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Improvisations 

Stanley  Kimmcl 

Author 
"SOUVENIRS."  tffc. 


Copynght  1919 

"The  Publiihera  of  Little  Boob" 
San  Francisco. 


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"Ingenuas  didicisse  fideliter  arles 
Emollit  mores,  nee  sinit  esse  feros." 
—Ovid. 


4131* 


VESPERA 


Evening  comes  and  softly  floats 
The  music  of  a  summer's  breeze, 
And  mingles  with  Apollo's  lyre 
The  sighing  of  the  laurel  trees. 
On  yonder  lake  the  gleaming  stars 
Have  kissed  the  tiring  waves  to  sleep, 
And  o'er  the  far  off  stretching  plain 
Golden  moon-beams,  silent,  creep. 

Olympus  harps  again  are  stilled, 
The  song  is  dead,  the  feast  is  o'er, 
Fair  Hebe  holds  an  empty  cup, 
And  nectar  spots  the  golden  floor. 


NOCTIS  SILENTIUM 


The  day  lies  buried  'neath  a  wintry  sky, 
In  cloaks  of  silence,  once  vermilion, 
Through  misty  shreds  of  fading  verdant 

light, 

Selene  bathes  white-limbed  Endymion. 
Beside  a  flaming  shield  of  golden  mould, 
The  ancient  Clio  grasps  a  withered  quill, 
Impatiently,  with  quivering  hand,  she 

scrawls, 

Atropos  softly  breathes,  "Be  still,  be  still." 
O  where  is  she  of  Ilion's  fallen  towers, 
Or  Caesar  with  his  treasured  wealth  and 

fame, 

And  he  who  roamed  a  fabled,  mystic  sea, 
That  liberty  might  know  a  sweeter  name — 
Are  they  but  as  the  dust  of  Fortune's  day, 
When  she  strode  boldly  through  archaic 

lands 

And  wedded  deathless  Immortality, 
Then  left  him  with  her  Jewels  in  his 

hands? 


LIMON! 

Limon!  Limon!  What  thrill  thou  gavest 

me 
When  first  I  looked  upon  thy  silent 

throng, 

When  all  of  life  lay  dreaming  in  the  calm, 
And  night  winds  mingled  with  a 

boatman's  song. 
Where  once  the  greedy  hand  of  pirate 

Spain 
Snatched  from  thy  birth-right  a 

dominion's  gold, 

Then  placed  upon  the  soil  a  tyrant  claw. 
And  for  some  tinseled  god,  thy  franchise 

sold. 

What  land  can  breath  the  air  republican 
Whose  State  kneels  low  before  a  papist, 

crowned? 

Is  freedom  but  a  gift  of  regal  power. 
Must  Liberty  in  scarlet  robes  be  bound? 
Where  are  the  warriors  of  thy  classic 

days 
Who  freed  thee  when  thou  wert  a  noble 

slave? 

Arise!  Behold!  The  lord  of  yesteryears 
Who  came  as  knight  remains  as  royal 

knave! 


MELPOMENE 

(To  Sarah  Truax) 

Amid  the  sparkling  flood  of  silver  sand, 
Where  sleeps  the  desert  wrapped  In 

vestal  beams, 

Thou  art  the  goddess  of  the  opal  streams 
That  fall  from  heaven  to  this  torrid 

land. 

Like  some  strange  cadence  of  a  saraband 
The  droning  winds  chant  their  nomadic 

themes 
O'er  crouching  tents  where  each  bronze 

Arab  dreams 
Of  Cassim's  gold  and  nights  in 

Samarkand. 

Who  knows,  save  he  whose  prison  soul 

has  bled. 
The  lonely  anguish  of  these  Trappist 

walls, 

Or  had  companionship  with  living  dead 
Who  jeer  the  day  and  chide  the  night 

yet  dread 
The  coming  hour  when  o'er  their  serfdom 

falls 
The  requiem  they  hear  in  cloistral  halls. 

(Garden  of  Allah) 


OLD  MEN 


Old  men  always  sit  alone, 
In  groups  of  twos  or  threes  or  more, 
Like  rusted  bolts  held  feebly  fast 
Upon  some  queer,  old  fashioned  door, 
Whose  withered  eyes  have  often  mocked 
The  passing  paupers  and  the  kings, 
And  others  strolling  by  that  way, 
Ladies  of  the  street  and  things. 
They  have  seen  all,  the  good  and  bad, 
Known  Love  and  pale,  green  lipped 

Despair; 

Yet  still  they  sit  with  wrinkled  eyes, 
And  like  the  dead  they  stare  and  stare. 


LAW 


A  child  of  Custom  whom  all  tyrants 

fear, 

A  gift  divine  if  reason  guides  thy  way, 
But  tread  not  purple  roads  of  power  by  day, 
Nor  steal  with  soulless  step  into  the  night 
Where  Pity  gropes  unpitied  in  the  sight 
Of  those  gold-kings  who  would  by 

pillage  live, 

Lest  thou  become  a  red-eyed  fugitive 
When  thou  the  voice  of  Anarchy  doth 

hear. 

Where  Lust  and  Greed  have  built  a 

vulture  throne 
The  Christ  of  Justice  kneels  with 

bleeding  head, 

And  Kindness  is  a  stranger  in  that  land 
Where  Poverty  with  Crime  walks  hand 

in  hand; 
For  such  my  native  soil  doth  hold  her 

dead- 
Is  this  mine  heritage  of  Washington? 


JXCelancholia 

Movements  from  a  Symphony 


ADAGIO 


In  the  park  so  melancholy 
The  sad  pines  their  torches  bear, 
Towering  in  the  silence,  holy, 
Cleave  the  grey,  nocturnal  air. 

Would  it  were  some  vale  fantastic 
Where  my  soul  could  meet  thine  own, 
And  with  purple  song  chromatic 
Dance  the  hours  as  roses  blown. 

Perfumes  linger  after  greeting, 
(Once  I  saw  thee  weep,  and  know) 
Saw  the  moon-light  quickly  fleeting 
In  the  dawn's  first  lustrous  glow. 

L'ENVOI 

As  tones  prolonged  are  softly  swept 
By  jewelled  hands  on  ivory  keys, 
You  passed  and  only  angels  wept, 
And  cold  winds  stirred  the  leafless 
trees. 


ANDANTE 


(Qua!  des  Augustines) 
The  night  is  green,  monotonous, 
And  rain  engulfs  the  vendor's  mart, 
It  bathes  my  soul  in  deepest  gloom, 
Will  not  from  out  my  soul  depart. 

The  street  lamps  glitter  dolefully, 
Throughout  the  space  of  empty  halls 
Grim  phantoms  dance  half-wittingly, 
A»  eunuchs  dance  at  secret  balls. 

Now  sleeps  the  river  with  its  fears 
Mist  hidden  by  the  night's  strange 

pall. 

Nor  hears  the  weird,  impassioned  plaint 
Of  rain  and  tears  upon  the  wall; 

Hears  not  the  sobbing  of  the  rain 
Or  tears  upon  the  cold,  grey  wall. 

Like  dusky  porcelains,  spectral  forms 
Strut  up  and  down  the  haunted  mall; 
They  mock  the  little  things  they  pass, 
The  rain  and  tears  which  sob  and  fall. 


'Pieces  from  a  Boudoir 
Suite 


Limbs  so  pure  and  white, 

What  wonderful  delight 

The  pallor  of  the  sheet  discloses; 

Wrapped  in  fragile  hair 

They  have  that  virgin  air 

Of  snow  and  roses. 

Have  the  muses  seen 

Pygmalion  and  his  queen — 

Known  the  marble  passion  of  her  eyes? 

Swiftly  the  false  moon. 

Dances  about  the  room. 

Naked,  over-wise. 


IV 

Evening  fades  and  the  moon's  light 
Falls  like  some  soft,  blue  brocade; 
O'er  a  balcony  of  Jade 
Steal  the  shadows  in  their  flight. 

Soul  of  fastly  fleeting  dreams, 
Like  the  night  whose  silver  song 
Wanes  as  perfumed  silks  among 
Slender,  luring,  sapphire  beams. 

All  the  grace  of  woman-kind, 
Innocence,  quite  like  a  child, 
Mirrored  in  a  voice  as  mild, 
Gay  as  laughing  summer  wind. 


Queries 

TWO  SONGS 


MORNING  SADNESS 


Why  am  I  thus  with  sorrow  wed, 
Who  scarce  did  know  sweet  childhood's 

guest, 

Where  are  the  singing  meadow  larks 
With  carols  of  their  morning  quest; 

Why  do  the  flowers  droop  their  heads 
Upon  the  shadowed  garden  wall, 
Why  is  the  music  soft  and  sad 
From  out  the  sparkling  water- fall? 


WHENCE  COMES  THIS  SONG 

Whence  comes  this  song  BO  golden 
In  the  dark  and  silent  night, 
Born  from  my  soul's  great  sadness 
Carried  on  by  fancy's  flight; 

Where  go  these  words  of  sorrow 
Through  the  ages  yet  unbound, 
Will  they,  like  wintry  flowers. 
Fall  on  barren,  frozen  ground? 


PENOMBRA 


Before  the  day  her  sleepy  eyes  have 

closed 
And  Somnus  sweeps  her  into  shadowed 

dreams, 

Let  music  float  upon  the  silenced  air 
In  one  great  symphony  of  dulcet  themes; 
Let  all  the  Earth  resound  in  eulogy, 
As  Sappho  sings  of  some  famed  hero's 

might, 

Till  Phoebus  drops  his  gems  of  aureate 
And  lifeless  falls  into  the  arms  of  Night. 

Pale  Sleep,  with  robes  of  scented 

asphodels, 
Glides  swiftly  on  past  mystic  twilight 

folds; 

And  steals  into  the  forest's  dim  recess 
Where  he  can  woo  the  gaudy  marigolds; 
The  stars  peer  out  with  cold  and  jealous 

eyes 

Upon  a  timid  faun  who  doth  forsake 
Her  lily-bed  that  she  may  muse  beside 
The  moon's  proud  image  mirrored  in 

the  lake. 


UNIVERSITY 


